Chapter Ten #2
Katie hated him in that moment. Not just for his lofty, autocratic manner, but because she had behaved badly in front of their servants.
She’d hurled his Christian name at him—without ever having his leave to use it in the first place—in front of their housekeeper, and she’d deliberately come late to dinner.
There was no doubt in her mind that her arguments and childish tantrums and rebellion were providing grist for the thriving below stairs rumor mill.
And she knew, not too deep down, that she had overstepped by accusing him of discourtesy. Yes, he was abrupt—even rude—but Dulverton was right about one thing: Jasper had been as honey-tongued as a man could be and he had been rotten to the core.
As she held Dulverton’s cold gaze, she resolved to pay more attention to his actions and less to his awkward manner, no matter how much it might irk her to do so.
“I agree that arriving late for dinner is not just discourteous to you, but those who labored over it. But do you not extend latitude for events beyond one’s control that might account for tardiness?”
“Are you saying that is why you were late tonight? Due to circumstances beyond your control.”
Instead of lying or arguing, she said, “And that is all? I should not argue with you in front of servants or be late for meals?”
He gave her a pained look.
“I do not wish to run afoul of any rules, Your Grace.”
“It is far more likely that you want to know what rules are in place so that you can go about breaking them.”
Katie gave a startled laugh; her new husband had certainly taken her measure uncomfortably quickly.
***
A sharp but not unpleasant sensation squeezed Gerrit’s chest at the sound of her throaty chuckle.
Laughter was something he had little experience with, and he could not recall the last time he’d found humor in anything.
He had not believed he was missing anything in his life, but an odd sense of yearning seeped through him, making him wish that he could laugh with her.
Foolishness.
Gerrit’s new wife did not have the faux, tinkling laugh one heard so often at society events. Rather, it was a discordant squawk that made his lips twitch up at the corners.
“Are you smiling?” Kathryn asked, eyeing him with unnerving keenness.
“No.”
And then she laughed again, damn it.
“I think you are.”
Gerrit ignored her teasing and pondered the worrisome realization that she had intentionally flouted the dinner rule and yet he was fighting a smile.
What the devil was wrong with him? Gerrit rarely found things amusing.
Indeed, his lack of a sense of humor was one of the things that seemed to forever separate him from normal people.
So why was he tempted to smile?
“In future,” she said, pulling him from his uncomfortable introspection, “I will always be at the dinner table at eight o’clock, unless I am physically unable.”
“We eat at six o’clock when we are at Briarly.”
Her smile dimmed, and Gerrit suspected his abrupt reply was responsible. What else should he have said? Damnation! This sort of awkwardness was why he despised socializing.
“Briarly is the name of your estate?” she asked, and then drained a third of her wine in one swallow. It had not escaped Gerrit’s notice that she’d had four glasses of champagne at the wedding breakfast. Was his new wife a dipsomaniac?
He saw she was looking at him quizzically and recalled she had asked him a question. “Correct.”
Her dark auburn eyebrows rose incrementally, as if she was waiting for him to say more. When he did not, those fascinating lips of hers twisted into a taunting smirk. “Well, you needn’t bore on about it.”
Gerrit frowned. Was that sarcasm?
“Where is Briarly?” she asked after a moment.
“How is it that you do not know these details already? I told all this to my man, Court, so that he could pass it along to your dresser—her name is Stone, I believe.”
“Yes, Rebecca Stone.”
Why was she telling him her servant’s Christian name?
“And is that how you prefer to communicate?” she asked. “Through my maid and your valet?”
“What is the point in me seeking you out to share such mundane information?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Mundane? You consider the subject of where we are going to live mundane? Besides,” she went on, “we barely have anything to talk about as it is, so I think the last thing we should do is pass along the few opportunities we have for conversation to our servants.”
She had a point. “Briarly is five miles from Lyme Regis.”
“I thought your country seat was Spenwood.”
“It is.”
She raised her eyebrows at him yet again.
Gerrit wracked his brains; what more did she want?
She gave a huff of annoyance. “You do not return there in the summer?”
“I visit Spenwood at the start of the season.”
“Shooting season?”
What the devil else would it be? Thankfully, Gerrit did not speak that aloud. “Correct.”
“How long do you stay?”
“Six weeks.” Six long weeks of living with his mother, during which time he spent every moment out of doors either shooting or seeing to estate matters.
Gerrit did not want to think about this year’s visit—and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it—until he was forced to do so. He reached for his fork.
“Are we coming to London next Season?”
He set down his fork. “I do not come to London for the Season, I come for the Session and to do my duty.” The sooner she realized there would be no endless rounds of vapid parties and balls, the better.
She turned her wine glass around and around and around, her gaze fixed on the patterns the foot made on the snowy damask. “But you will come for some part of the year?”
“Correct.”
“You will come, but I will not?”
“I have not given the matter any thought.” Gerrit experienced an unpleasant niggle at his not entirely truthful response.
Kathryn was not only extremely beautiful, she was also wild to a fault.
The last thing he wanted was to watch her ensorcel one man after another during the whirl of a London Season.
Distasteful memories of Christina rose up in his head, and he felt his face settle into a scowl.
He thrust the unwanted reminders of his first marriage to the back of his mind and looked at his wife. Kathryn was not waiting for any answer from him. Instead, she was staring at her wine glass, lost in thought, which meant Gerrit could gorge unremarked on her lovely face.
Hers was a classical beauty made all the more stunningly vibrant by masses of burnished copper hair. The features on her heart-shaped face were finely drawn and delicate, from her large green eyes that tilted up at the outside corners like a cat to her perfect Cupid’s bow of a mouth.